The next twenty-four hours feel like someone pressed pause on my life and somehow I'm still breathing through the stillness. I don't go anywhere. I barely eat. I sit on the edge of my bed with my knees drawn up and my thoughts scattered everywhere. Every time I try to think clearly, Asher's offer loops in my mind again with terrifying clarity.

Ten thousand dollars.

My family's security.

A chance out of the drowning.

And in exchange, I would give six months of my life pretending to be married to a man who barely blinked the entire time he spoke.

Mom notices something is wrong, of course. She's still fragile, still trying to survive her own version of this grief, but she's always been the kind of person who senses storms even before they form.

That evening she finds me sitting at the dining table, staring at numbers on a notepad that won't stop shifting every time I blink.

"Elara," she says softly, touching my shoulder, "you're scaring me. Talk to me."

I look at her, at the exhaustion in her eyes, at the lines grief carved on her face in just one week, and I want to tell her everything. But the words taste unreal in my mouth. How do I explain that someone like Asher Sterling wants me to pretend I belong beside him?

"I'm just thinking about jobs," I say, which isn't even a lie.

She gives me a tired smile. "You'll find one. You always do."

I nod even though I don't believe it. The last week made me realize how unprepared I am for adulthood. Losing a parent doesn't just break your heart-it throws you straight into the deep end without warning.

Mom presses a kiss to my forehead before returning to the living room, where she's been sorting my father's belongings slowly, piece by piece. I watch her shoulders tremble and look away before she notices.

I wish I could save all of us.

Maybe this is the only way.

But the idea of stepping into Asher's world feels overwhelming. I can't tell what's more frightening-saying no or saying yes.

When morning comes, I haven't slept at all.

At nine a.m., Nova barges into my room with the subtlety of a marching band. "Tell me you said yes."

"I said nothing," I mumble, rubbing my temples.

"Elara!" she groans dramatically. "Do you understand how life-changing this is? Do you understand that you could get your family out of this nightmare in one month, forget six?"

"That's not the point," I snap, louder than I intend. "Nova, he's not normal."

She pauses. "No billionaires are normal. You want normal? Date a barista."

"That's not what I meant."

"Then what? Is he rude? Dangerous? Creepy?"

I shake my head. "No. God, no. He's just... intense. Cold. He looks at you like he's measuring your entire existence in five seconds. And he barely moves. It's like he's in a permanent board meeting."

Nova snorts. "Okay, maybe he's a little emotionally constipated, but he's not asking you to love him. He's asking you to pretend you tolerate him long enough for his grandmother to believe it."

I drop my face into my hands. "This is insane."

"Everything is insane when you're broke," she says gently, sitting beside me. "But this insane thing might save you."

I don't answer. I don't trust myself to.

The day drags on painfully. Every hour feels like a countdown. By evening, I feel the decision clawing at my throat. There's no universe where my father would have wanted this for me. But there's also no universe where he would have wanted us drowning financially after everything he worked for.

I wait until almost nine p.m.

Twenty-four hours on the dot.

My phone vibrates in my hand as I finally dial the number on the card Asher gave me. My fingers tremble so hard I almost drop it.

He answers on the first ring.

"Ms. Wynn."

His voice is exactly as I remember it-smooth, low, composed, like he never raises it for anything.

I swallow harshly. "I thought about it."

"And?"

My heart thunders once, twice, before I force the word out.

"Yes."

He doesn't react with surprise or relief. Just a calm exhale, like he already expected this outcome.

"Good. We'll meet tomorrow at nine. Same suite. Bring an ID and whatever documents you have. The contract will be ready."

My pulse spikes. "Tomorrow?"

"Yes. My grandmother requested lunch this weekend. We need everything finalized before then."

I grip the edge of my comforter. "Okay."

There's a small beat of silence. Then, in a softer but still unreadable tone, he says,

"You made the right choice."

"I hope so," I whisper.

"You did," he says simply. "I'll see you tomorrow, Ms. Wynn."

He hangs up without a goodbye.

I stare at my phone screen long after the call ends, feeling the decision settle on my shoulders like a weight I chose but don't yet understand.

"I'm going to regret this," I whisper into the empty room.

But deep down, something tells me this is the first step into a life I never expected-whether it turns into salvation or disaster.

The morning air feels heavier than usual when I step outside. Not colder, just... weighted, like the world knows I made a choice yesterday that I can't undo. Nova insisted on coming with me, but I refused. I need to do this alone, even if my nerves are threatening to crawl out of my skin.

I arrive at the Sterling building ten minutes early, and it's as intimidating as ever-glass walls glowing softly, polished floors so clean they look like mirrors. Everything in this place screams money and control, two things I have absolutely none of.

The receptionist greets me with a polite, practiced smile. "Good morning, Ms. Wynn. Mr. Sterling is expecting you. Forty-second floor."

Of course he is.

The elevator ride is painfully smooth. Too smooth. The kind that leaves you alone with every thought you tried to bury. I straighten my blouse twice, then stop because I'm making it obvious I'm nervous. Not that it matters. Anyone who steps into Asher Sterling's orbit probably feels exactly like this.

When the doors slide open, the hallway is the same quiet, immaculate stretch I walked through two days ago. My heartbeat speeds up with every step. I stop in front of suite 4201 and take a steadying breath.

Before I can knock, the door opens from inside.

Asher stands there in another perfectly tailored suit, dark grey this time, sleeves rolled up just enough to show the expensive watch hugging his wrist. His expression remains unreadable-calm, composed, like he's been waiting without actually waiting.

"Ms. Wynn," he says, stepping back slightly. "Come in."

I walk inside, and the familiar minimalistic suite feels different today-like a stage set for a performance I'm about to take part in. A folder rests on the coffee table. A pen lies beside it. A subtle, cold seriousness fills the room.

Asher closes the door behind me. "Did you bring your documents?"

I nod and hand him the small folder I brought. His fingers brush mine for half a second-cool, steady, impersonal. He glances through everything with efficient movements, then sets it all aside.

"You're punctual," he says.

"I was too nervous to be late."

A faint flicker crosses his eyes. Amusement? Maybe. Hard to tell. His face returns to its neutral setting almost instantly.

"As long as you can maintain that punctuality," he replies, "we'll have no issues."

That tiny, vague comment somehow makes my nerves worse.

He gestures toward the sofa. "Sit."

I do, and he takes the seat opposite me-not beside me, not too close. Just across, like this is still a business meeting. He opens the thick folder on the table and slides the front pages toward me.

"This is the agreement," he says. "Read everything carefully. Ask questions if you need to."

My fingers hover over the contract for a long moment before I finally force myself to read. It's detailed, extremely so. Rules, expectations, boundaries, compensations-everything spelled out like I'm being hired for a job at a multinational firm rather than a pretend marriage.

Six months.

Public events, dinners, family gatherings.

Shared residence-my stomach flips at that part.

Weekly allowances.

A nondisclosure clause.

A termination clause.

No romantic expectations.

My eyes stick on that line longer than I intend.

"It's to avoid misunderstandings," he says quietly, noticing where I'm stuck. "Our arrangement is purely strategic."

"I didn't think you wanted anything else," I answer, but my voice sounds smaller than I intended.

His gaze holds mine for a few seconds, unreadable again, before he nods once.

"Good."

I continue reading, trying not to let my hands shake. When I reach the compensation section, my breath catches. Ten thousand a month. Plus housing, transport, and any public image expenses I might need.

It's life-saving.

And terrifying.

When I finally finish, Asher watches me with a calm patience that somehow makes me even more aware of myself.

"Any questions?" he asks.

"A few," I admit. "Your grandmother... she really wants you married?"

"She wants stability," he says, leaning back slightly. "She's been ill recently, and my personal life is one of her biggest worries. I don't have the time for a real relationship. A temporary solution is cleaner."

Cleaner.

The word hits strangely.

"And when it ends?" I ask. "What happens?"

His jaw tightens just slightly. "When the six months are over, we part ways. You'll receive the final payment, and everything goes back to normal."

Normal.

As if anything about this is normal.

He slides the pen toward me. "Do you want to do this, Ms. Wynn?"

The question echoes in the quiet room.

Do I?

I think of mom sorting dad's belongings, wiping her eyes when she thinks I'm not looking.

My brother closing himself off in his room.

Bills piling up like threats.

The aching weight of reality pressing down on all of us.

I meet Asher's gaze.

"Yes," I say, steady this time. "I want to do it."

His expression doesn't soften, but something shifts-like approval, or maybe just relief hidden beneath layers he never shows.

"Then sign," he says gently.

I take the pen.

And with a slow exhale, I sign my name.

"Elara Wynn."

When I lift my head, Asher closes the folder with a quiet finality.

"Welcome to the arrangement," he says.

And just like that, my life takes a turn I can't rewind.

The next morning arrives before I feel ready. I lie in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the house settle around me. Mom hums softly in the kitchen, probably making breakfast for Liam. The familiar sounds should bring comfort, but instead they make me feel hollow. I'm about to leave home, temporarily, for a life I barely understand.

I pack slowly, methodically, each folded shirt and tucked pair of trousers feeling heavier than the last. This isn't just luggage-it's my tiny attempt to hold onto something normal before stepping into a world that's anything but.

Nova texts me every five minutes, practically vibrating with excitement. Don't chicken out. You'll do fine.

You'll see-it's not that bad.

Promise me you won't panic when you see him again.

I ignore most of her messages, but the last one makes me pause: Remember, he's a man who expects everything perfect. Don't mess up.

Perfect. The word echoes in my head. I already feel like I've failed before even arriving.

By the time I reach the Sterling building, my hands are clammy and my chest tight. The receptionist greets me, recognizing me from yesterday, and sends me up without a word. I step into the elevator, and every floor that ticks by feels like a countdown.

When the doors open, the hallway stretches before me like a runway. Suite 4201 waits at the end, polished and imposing. My heartbeat hammers against my ribs as I knock.

The door swings open, and there he is.

Asher Sterling. Just standing there, crisp and perfectly poised, as if the world itself bends around him. The suit fits like it was molded to his body, the sleeves rolled just slightly to reveal the silver of his watch. His expression remains calm, unreadable-every inch the man who could crush me with a look if he wanted to.

"Ms. Wynn," he says, voice smooth and steady. "I assume you're ready."

"I... yes," I manage, stepping inside. My voice sounds small even to me.

He nods once, and I notice the faintest twitch of approval in his eyes. It's subtle-maybe he's trying not to show that I'm human, or maybe he simply doesn't care to reveal anything.

"I will go over the rules for your stay," he says as he closes the door behind me. "Pay attention. They are not suggestions. They are conditions, and breaking them is not optional."

I nod, swallowing hard.

"Rule one," he begins, pacing slowly, hands clasped behind his back. "You will maintain punctuality at all times. Any event, appearance, or meeting is not yours to negotiate. Arrive early. Leave on schedule. Understand?"

"Yes," I whisper, my stomach twisting.

"Rule two. Respect privacy." He pauses, and his gaze sharpens, like he's checking if I understand the gravity. "This household is not public property. Do not enter rooms without permission, do not touch personal items, and do not question my decisions in front of anyone outside the household. Confidentiality is paramount."

I nod again, noting the firmness of his tone. He is unyielding.

"Rule three. Public appearances." He gestures toward the city skyline beyond the windows, and my pulse skips. "You will act naturally, with composure. Smile when required. Speak when required. Maintain the appearance of familiarity and affection without overstepping into personal familiarity. This is a business arrangement, Ms. Wynn. Not a friendship. Not a romance. A façade, nothing more."

The words sting, reminding me that everything I'm doing is an act, and yet the weight of real-world consequences hangs over me like a cloud.

"Rule four. Boundaries." He pauses, eyes meeting mine with an intensity that makes me inhale sharply. "There is no intimacy. Physical or emotional engagement beyond what is required for appearances is prohibited. This includes private moments, gestures, and unsolicited contact. We will maintain decorum at all times."

I bite my lip. The rules are strict. Strict to the point of suffocation. But I can't deny the logic in them. The boundaries are what will keep me safe.

"Rule five. Communication." He moves to the sofa and sits with perfect posture. "You will communicate any issues immediately. Delays, doubts, questions-all of it. I expect honesty. I will provide guidance, but discretion is my responsibility. Understood?"

"Yes." My voice is firmer this time.

"Rule six." He leans back slightly, scanning me with sharp eyes. "You will not alter your behavior to ingratiate yourself. You will not try to manipulate situations to your advantage. This is a professional arrangement. Authenticity is the only currency you have. You either succeed by following these rules, or you fail."

The word fail echoes in my mind. I feel the weight of it, heavier than any contract.

"Rule seven." His tone softens fractionally, though it's still commanding. "You will maintain personal care, dress appropriately for events, and present yourself with dignity. If you have questions about expectations for attire or conduct, ask before the event. Do not improvise."

I swallow again. Every rule feels like a wall being built between me and the life I knew.

"And finally, rule eight." His voice drops lower, almost a whisper, though it carries across the suite. "Respect my space. Respect my time. Respect the arrangement. You are here to perform a role, nothing more. Forget everything else."

I nod, unable to look away. There's no room for argument, no room for hesitation. Every rule is a steel cage I willingly step into.

Asher rises from the sofa and moves toward the window. "This is your life now for the next six months. Understand the seriousness. Follow the rules. Don't make mistakes. I will not repeat instructions."

I inhale sharply. "I understand. I will follow them."

He turns slightly, giving me a rare, fleeting glance. "Good. Now, I will have my assistant prepare your residence. You move in tomorrow morning. Pack accordingly."

Tomorrow. My chest tightens at the thought of leaving my home, even temporarily. But the rules, strict and unyielding, give me something I didn't expect-structure. A way to survive, a map through chaos.

Nova's voice echoes in my mind: Don't chicken out. You'll do fine.

I step closer to the window, looking at the city below. For the first time since Dad's funeral, I feel a sliver of clarity. Fear still coils in my stomach, but beneath it, determination grows. I am about to step into Asher Sterling's world-a place where every move will be scrutinized, where my life will no longer be entirely my own.

But if I follow his rules... maybe, just maybe, I can survive it.

And perhaps, even thrive.

The morning of the move arrives faster than I feel ready for. I barely sleep, waking multiple times, imagining every possible mistake I could make. What if I say the wrong thing? What if I break a rule without realizing it? What if he thinks I'm incapable?

Nova bursts in just as I finish the last strap on my suitcase. "You look... nervous," she says, trying to sound casual.

"You think?" I mutter, zipping my bag.

"Relax. You're going to be fine. Just... follow the rules. Don't touch anything you're not supposed to. Smile. Breathe. Survive."

I snort, but it's a nervous laugh, more like a squeak. She shakes her head at me and drags her own bag toward the door. "I'm coming with you until you get settled. Someone has to make sure you don't melt into a puddle the second you meet him again."

I can't argue, so I follow her out, each step weighted with nerves and anticipation.

The car ride is silent except for my restless thoughts. I stare out the window at the city whizzing past, each building a reminder that I'm stepping into a world so far from my own.

By the time we arrive at the Sterling building, my hands are trembling again. Nova nudges me gently. "Okay, breathe. You've got this."

The elevator dings open, and the polished hallway stretches before me, familiar but no less intimidating. Suite 4201 waits at the end, as sleek and imposing as yesterday. I knock lightly, and the door opens immediately.

Asher Sterling stands there, arms crossed, expression unreadable, aura commanding. He doesn't even glance at Nova. "Ms. Wynn," he says simply.

I swallow and step inside. "Good morning."

"Morning," he replies. Then, with that same calm precision, he gestures toward the door behind me. "Your belongings will be transported shortly. Nova may stay until the movers arrive."

She grins at me and gives a thumbs-up. "See? Told you I'd help you survive the first hour."

I try to smile but it feels tight. Asher studies me with sharp eyes. "Follow me. I will show you your residence."

The penthouse is breathtaking. My first thought is that it's impossibly clean. Minimalist furniture, sharp lines, cool colors, floor-to-ceiling windows revealing the city below. Every surface glimmers faintly. There is no clutter. No warmth. And yet, it's strangely inviting, almost... safe, in a rigid, controlled way.

"This will be your space," he says, indicating a room at the far end of the suite. "Your room, bathroom, and study. You are expected to keep it in the same condition. The housekeepers will provide maintenance, but nothing is to be moved without prior consent. Understand?"

"Yes," I whisper, taking in the room. It's large, but not personal. No pictures, no trinkets. Just furniture arranged with exact precision.

He watches me as I set my suitcase down. "You will keep personal belongings organized. Clothes, toiletries, and other items should remain in the provided storage. The layout of this residence is not to be altered. This is rule nine."

I nod quickly, trying not to look overwhelmed.

"And rule ten," he continues, voice calm but unwavering, "you will report to me directly any concerns. If you need assistance, ask immediately. Delays or miscommunication will not be tolerated."

"Yes," I say again.

He pauses at the window, overlooking the city. "Rule eleven. Your movements within the residence and during events are expected to be discreet, efficient, and graceful. You are part of a public image, Ms. Wynn. Remember that at all times."

I feel the weight of the words settling over me like armor I must wear.

"And rule twelve," he adds finally, "you will be prepared for public appearances. This includes dress, posture, etiquette, and conversation. You will act naturally, as though we are a couple familiar with one another. There are no exceptions."

"Yes," I whisper again, my voice almost inaudible.

He studies me for a long moment, and for the first time since yesterday, his eyes soften just slightly. "This is not meant to intimidate you. It is meant to protect both of us. You follow these rules, and you will succeed."

I exhale, a small relief slipping through my nerves. "I... understand. I will follow them."

"Good." He gestures toward the door. "The movers will arrive in one hour. Unpack only what is necessary. You are expected to be settled before dinner. Nova, you may assist."

Nova grins at me, already bouncing toward my bag. "See? Told you it wouldn't be that bad. You just have to survive the rules."

I force a smile and start unpacking, but my hands shake slightly as I arrange my things. Every rule he gave me echoes in my mind. Don't touch. Don't move. Don't speak out of turn. Don't improvise. Don't make mistakes.

And yet, there's something about the order, the precision, the predictability, that feels grounding.

Asher doesn't linger. He walks to the other side of the suite, straightening a chair, checking a tablet, completely focused. I watch him for a moment, wondering how someone can be so composed, so controlled, so... untouchable.

I begin placing my clothes in the drawers, unpacking toiletries, arranging personal items just so. The movements are deliberate, careful. Following rules becomes a game, a way to survive the anxiety twisting in my chest.

Nova hums softly beside me, whispering tips about folding, coordinating outfits, and keeping appearances in mind. I listen, nod, and try not to feel the absurdity of taking etiquette lessons from her for a pretend marriage.

Hours pass. Movers come and go. Boxes are unpacked. The room slowly begins to feel a little like mine, though the sterility of the penthouse reminds me constantly that I'm not home.

As the sun lowers in the sky, Asher finally speaks from across the suite. "Dinner will be at eight. Be prepared. Appropriate attire. You will not be late. You will not draw unnecessary attention. You will behave as though we are accustomed to each other."

"Yes," I say again, my throat tight.

He glances at me once more, then turns back to his tablet, completely composed, completely unflappable.

Nova nudges me gently. "Deep breath. You survived the first rules session. That's... something."

I laugh softly, the tension in my chest loosening just a fraction. For the first time in days, I feel like I can breathe. Just a little.

But as I look around the penthouse, the city lights beginning to twinkle beyond the windows, I realize something: following the rules is only the first step.

The real challenge-living under them, day after day, with Asher Sterling-is only just beginning.

By the time the clock inches close to eight, my stomach is a bundle of nerves tied so tightly together I can barely breathe. Nova left an hour ago, swearing she'd text me every ten minutes-and she has, which somehow makes me more anxious. I haven't responded. I keep staring at the open wardrobe, at the dresses lined up like strangers waiting for me to make the wrong choice.

I pick something simple. A fitted black dress with thin straps, nothing flashy, nothing loud. It looks clean. Safe. Exactly what someone like Asher would prefer.

Or at least, what I think he would.

I tie my hair half-up, slip into black flats-heels feel like a risk right now-and take one long breath before stepping into the hallway.

The penthouse is quiet, bathed in soft gold lighting, the city glittering beyond the windows like a map drawn in lights. I walk toward the dining room, palms damp, steps feather-light on the polished floors.

Asher is already there.

He sits at the head of the long dining table, posture straight, fingers loosely pressed together, gaze fixed on a document in front of him. He's dressed in a dark charcoal shirt, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal strong forearms and the glint of his watch. His hair looks freshly styled, but he wears it like he always does-effortless, sharp, intimidating without trying.

He doesn't look up when I enter.

Not immediately.

But then his eyes lift, slowly, deliberately, and when they land on me, something flickers. Brief. Unreadable. But enough to make my heartbeat stutter.

"Ms. Wynn," he says, voice calm and low. "Sit."

I do, settling two seats away from him on his right side. The distance feels intentional. Professional. A reminder.

This isn't real.

Nothing between us is real.

I fold my hands in my lap and wait, unsure what comes next. A moment passes, thick with silence. Then two servers-when did they appear?-place plates in front of us.

The moment they leave, Asher speaks again.

"This dinner is to familiarize you with certain expectations," he says. "Public behavior, conversational roles, and the tone we must maintain."

I nod. "Okay."

His gaze lifts to mine, cold but not unkind. "First rule for meals: no fidgeting. Keep your posture straight. Shoulders relaxed. Hands placed lightly beside your plate when you're not using them."

I almost drop my fork. "Right. Sorry."

"And don't apologize unless you've made a substantial mistake."

"Oh." I pause. "Okay."

His jaw tightens. "That was another apology."

Heat creeps up my neck, but his expression doesn't change. He simply returns to cutting his food with smooth, practiced motions, as if nothing about this conversation is unusual.

I mimic his pace. Small bites, steady movements. No clinking. No scraping.

Every second feels like studying for an exam I never signed up for.

He finishes his first bite and speaks again.

"In public, our interactions will appear familiar but measured. You will walk beside me, not behind. You may hold my arm. You may not cling. You will smile when appropriate and remain silent unless spoken to directly."

My chest tightens. "And when we're alone?"

He doesn't look up. "We maintain boundaries. We follow the contract. Nothing more."

I don't know why that stings. It shouldn't. He warned me from the beginning. But still, a small part of me feels... dismissed. Like a reminder that in this enormous apartment, I am the temporary one. The replaceable one.

He must sense the tension because he adds, "This is not personal, Ms. Wynn. It is necessary."

"Right." My voice is softer than I mean it to be.

His eyes lift slowly, meeting mine with startling directness. "You are not here to feel uncertain or unwanted. You are here because you agreed to an arrangement that benefits both of us."

I swallow. "I know."

"Then stop shrinking," he says, voice barely above a murmur. "You won't survive in my world if you act like you're apologizing for existing."

The words hit deeper than expected. Sharp. Clean. Brutal in accuracy.

"I'm trying," I whisper.

"You will do more than try."

Silence stretches.

But it isn't hostile. It crackles with something heavier, something unspoken, something neither of us seems ready to touch.

Halfway through dinner, tension coils between us-not the nervous kind, but an awareness, like the air shifts every time his gaze brushes mine. He eats with precision. Speaks only to instruct. Observes everything. And yet... there's something else. A softness behind the steel. A shadow of thoughtfulness.

When the plates are cleared, he gestures for me to follow him to the lounge area. The space is dimly lit, the city's glow reflecting off the glass. He sits on one end of the sofa. I take the other.

This distance feels different-intentional in another way.

"We will attend an event next week," he says. "A private family luncheon. My grandmother will want to speak with you. She will test you."

My skin prickles. "Test me how?"

A quiet breath leaves him. Not quite a sigh. More like the ghost of irritation toward the situation.

"She will ask about your past, your interests, your goals. She searches for flaws. Contradictions. Weaknesses. Don't give her any."

"I'll try-"

"No," he interrupts gently but firmly. "You will prepare."

He stands, retrieves a sleek folder from his desk, and hands it to me. It's filled with pages of information: his grandmother's charities, her friends, her hobbies, even her disliked foods.

"You memorized all this?" I ask.

"I lived it."

A hint of something passes across his face. Something tired. Human.

I look down at the papers, my voice softer. "I'll learn it. I promise."

He nods once, as if accepting that answer.

But then I make a mistake.

I place the folder on the glass table without thinking-too close to the edge, disrupting the perfect symmetry of the room.

His demeanor shifts.

Cold. Controlled. Almost tense.

He steps forward, nudges the folder exactly two inches to align with the coaster and the vase.

My heart clenches. "Did I... do something wrong?"

He hesitates.

And for the first time, he seems unsure what to say.

"No," he finally replies. "It's not you. It's order. I require it."

"I can be careful," I say quietly. "I'll learn how everything works here."

His eyes flick to mine-sharper, almost pained in a way I don't understand.

"I don't expect you to adapt immediately. But I do expect you to listen."

A beat.

"And I expect you not to fear me."

The last line catches me off guard, stealing a breath I didn't know I was holding.

"I'm not afraid of you," I say.

He studies me, slow and searching, like he's deciding whether he believes it.

Then he steps back toward the window, hands in his pockets, posture rigid in a way that suddenly feels less like confidence and more like armor.

"Dinner is concluded," he says quietly. "You may return to your room."

It sounds like a dismissal. A gentle one, but still a dismissal.

I stand slowly. "Goodnight, Asher."

He doesn't look at me.

But when I reach the hallway, his voice reaches me instead.

"Goodnight, Elara."

Something tightens in my chest.

Because for the first time tonight-

he says my name.